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THE 



PRESENT AGE; 



OR 



Mtu anl 3ihnuttB 



BY FKANK CLIFFORD. 



" NEC TIMEO, NEC SPERNO." 



NEW YORK: 

DEW ITT & DAVENP(3RT, PUBLISHERS 
T R I B U N J*: BUILDINGS. 





THE 



PRESENT AGE 



MEN AND MANNERS. 



BY FRANK CLIFFORD, 



"Ntt timto, ntc iftxm. 



'J 




N E W Y O R K: 
DEWITT & DAVENPORT, TRIBUNE BUILDINGS. 



Ji 






R, CRAIGHEAD, PRINTER, 
112 FULTON STREET. 



THE PEESENT AGE 



MEN AND MANNERS. 



There was a time e'er Folly's reign began, 
When worth, not " filthy lucre," made a 

man, 
When Reason ruled, not Fashion held her 

sway — 
That silly queen whom sillier souls obey. 
Fantastic leader of a motley crew. 
That follows her from nothing else to do. 
Oh! man, thou short-lived insect of a day ; 
Corrupted mass of animated clay ; 
Is it for this immortal nature joined 
The noble form, the keen, discerning mind ? 



4 THE PRESENT AGE. 

Is it for this the brave and virtuous soul 
Was given to thee ? to serve and not control ? 
Is there no praise to find in virtue's mould ? 
And has all worth and honor fled to gold ? 
Yes ! flattery's voice will gain a willing ear, 
When spurned is that which knows no art 

nor fear : 
Ah ! fatal error, for in Freedom's birth, 
Not titles here, but works, should prove our 

worth. 
To toil and labor is our lot below : 
Heaven gave us joy, and also^ave us woe, 
And gently mixed them both so life should 

seem 
A stern reality and not a dream. 

But all must know that Heaven no flattery 

wins. 
Nor weekly prayers atone for daily sins ; 
And yet we see the sober Sunday face, 
The downcast look, the slow and measured 
. pace; 



THE PRESENT AGE. 6 

As if one hour throughout a week to pray 
Answered for crimes committed every day. 
I would mankind could live for other things 
And other objects than what money brings ; 
Or would that nature never had designed 
A manly form, without a manly mind : 
For art and fashion seem to me most plain, 
Some " ignis fatuus " of the human brain, 
By which both sense and reason are forgot, 
And people strive to be what they are not. 
What crazy poet does this stuff indite ? 
Asks some rude reader whom this shoe fits 

tight. 
But, pray, my friend, my critic, or my foe. 
Rhyme comes with reason sometimes, you 

must know. 
" Loquitur bene stultus interdum ;" 
Or, in plain English, " sense from fools may 

come :" 
And since you say that poets all are crazed. 
They should not be too lightly judged or 

praised ; 



THE PRESENT AGE 



Or when too harshly used or sorely vexed, 
They often take their critics for their text, 
And show not, Christian-like (1 own 'tis 

wrong), 
That though fools sing, fools still may be the 

song. 



I like not men who daily try to find 
Some trifling blemish in their fellow-kind, 
And when once found, the very least of faults. 
Make up wry mouths, like children taking 

salts ; 
Let such but search themselves, and half life 

through 
They'll learn at length they have enough 

to do: 
For those that talk of others' deeds alone, 
Are not aware of any of their own. 
Like wagons rolling o'er a frozen ground — 
"The emptiest things reverberate most 

sound." 



THE PRESENT AGE. 7 

That adage suits as well in prose as rhyme, 
And rightly answers any place or time, 
When those that have but one idea or so. 
And rattle it to let the whole world know 
That it is coming — men of mighty mind, 
Who in their haste have left their brains 
behind. 

O ! shame, indeed, that such an age is ours, 
Where wisdom fails, and weakness over- 
powers ; 
Where pious sceptics never deign to bless, 
And silly women scan an author's dress ; 
As if the way a coat was cut behind 
Foretold the powers of the human mind : 
No man's agreeable if he does not wear 
Three yards of linen sporting on the air ; 
And love-sick girls would at your knot-tie 

smile 
Were it not fashioned in the present style : 
Then to escape dark scandal's black'ning 
lash, 



8 THE PRESENT AGE. 

When nature's false, just wear a false 

moustache. 
If you are rich, though brainless, you will 

pass, 
For gold's the lion-skin to hide the ass. — 
Should ^sop's fable of the brute speak true, 
Then, long-eared lion, it applies to you. 
Though at my etching some should take 

offence. 
And dub me rhymer with but little sense. 
Though fierce beasts roar, and little puppies 

growl, 
"Those born in woods are scared not by an 

owl." 
I do not fear, nor spurn, but would reprove, 
And neither write for money nor for love, 
There is a will that leaves all fear behind, 
'Tis resolution, fiat of the mind ; 
And I'm resolved, though critics should assail. 
For sometimes errors over truths prevail, 
To stand the test of time ; and if, at last. 
My muse be censured when her reign is past, 



THE PRESENT AGE. 9 

I'll know at least she wrote with common 

sense, 
Nor sang, like others, under false pretence. 

Let some, like spiders, from the thread-like 

brain, 
Weave the fine web, whose labor gives them 

pain. 
My muse, in different course, more manly 

acts. 
Rejects all flourishes, and sticks to facts. 
And chooses knowledge of the human 

heart, 
Refusing metaphors that learn of art ; 
Then boldly dares to stand in the defence 
Of honor, union, and of common sense. 
Though some parade their foolish thoughts 

in rhyme. 
Debasing both the subject and the time. 
Proclaim their notions in whole sheets of 

print. 

And think us stupid not to take the hint 
1* 



10 THE PRESENT AGE. 

Which they unfold about "our great do- 
minion/' 
And, self-conceited, venture their opinion ; 
As if a " Dido" was of weight with those 
Who always think more than the author 

knows. 
It seems so strange old men with feeble 

breath 
Should cheat and bargain on the verge of 

death, 
When, not content with blessing them and 

theirs, 
They hoard up riches merely for their heirs ; 
Or simply those that neither work nor play, 
Just fools enough to live by passion's sway. 
And. floating Hstless on from wave to wave. 
Each lives through life a weak and senseless 

slave ; 
Whom all that see must soon quit in disgust, 
Poor silly heap of gold-besprinkled dust. 
" O woful day !" that we're compelled to see 
Such prostitution of all modesty ; 



THE PRESENT AGE. 11 

When Fitzjames whirls her hmbs, bedecked 

with lace, 
And half-dressed dancers skip in Astor Place. 
But what may we expect in such an age, 
When foreign fools and humbugs are the rage ; 
When honest worth is starving in the street, 
And poverty in every shape we meet. 
We pass them by, and heaps of treasure 

bring. 
To some impostor or Italian thing ; 
Load him with bounty never known before, 
And kick an honest beggar from our door : 
Tricked and deceived by every knavery, 
We still are slaves, though hating slavery ; 
And live and move to lose in pleasures vain 
What we possess — our fathers' honest gain ; 
While any novelty can raise the wind. 
From Barnum's mermaid up to Jenny Lind. 
Yet all must love her for her kindly heart, 
Ready to bless, and always to impart 
The rich abundance granted her by heaven, 
And, aiding others, hope to be forgiven. 



12 THE PRESENT AGE, 

O ! that some rich ones of the " upper ten^ 
Had learned a lesson from good Jenny then, 
And not penurious even to life's end. 
Leave a few dollars to a poorer friend, 
While nearer kinsmen almost wish them dead, 
And even envy them their daily bread, 
They leave them rich in infamy and ease, 
Too weak to vex, too silly to displease — 
^Tis sad to see men with such chance of fame 
Live without sense and die without a name. 

Of all things earthly that I hate to see. 

Are prying women in society ;. 

Well versed in knowledge, but in that alone. 

Of every one's affairs except their own. 

And such a village life must show to all 

Of those well skilled in every household brawl ; 

Not e'en a word can pass 'twixt man and 

wife. 
But scandal's breath must bring it into life. 
Not mere old spinsters, with just brains 

enough 



THE PRESENT AGE. 13 

To make false tales, and fill their heads with 

snuff, 
But young ones, too, who every item know, 
From Sally's tom-cat up to Julia's beau, 
And vex their precious souls if Catharine's 

hat 
On Sunday last was more than this or 

that ; 
If here some ribbon sauntered out of place. 
Or some stray ringlet stole adown her face, 
" Oh ! young Miss does always so ap- 
pear \ 
She's very awkward — don't you think so, 

dear ?" 
I know a country Miss — a village belle, 
Or so she thought herself — 'tis just as well, 
Who, paying visits to a favorite friend. 
Saw much to blame, and little to commend ; 
Noticed each part, and scanned each action 

o'er. 
Then left them doubled at her neighbor's 

door. 



14 THE PRESENT AGE. 

She heard and greatly lengthened each re- 
port; 
A tell-tale beauty of a certain sort. 
I would that men could see with mortal eyes, 
Nor render judgments e'er their thoughts 

arise ; 
Nor self-made critics, critics but in name, 
Ready to censure, studious to defame, 
That in their stupid ignorance grow bold, 
When brains are bribed, and pens are tipped 

with gold : 
For money's power, and now since " might 

makes right;" 
'Tis shield and buckler in both peace and 

fight; 
And he who wears it little may he fear 
From even satire's often venal spear. 

And men have we of weak, contracted mind. 
Of visions wild and idle schemes combined ; 
With restless souls they show in every state 
Eternal rancor and unbounded hate : 



THE PRESENT AGE. 15 

Pledged to no king save madness, they em- 
ploy 
Each daring plan to vent their savage joy, 
While pliant minions stand as slavish mutes, 
And yield their voice to baser prostitutes. 
With that low cunning that too oft supplies 
In silly pates the place of being wise, 
They utter spleen, and at each good man 

rave, 
Too poor for blockhead and too great for 

knave ; 
Use virtue's rose to hide the thorn of spite, 
And fawn in day to murder in the night. 
Fanned into sleep by subtartarean wings. 
The unsuspecting fear no hidden stings : 
But ah ! too late they see their danger then, 
Reverse their course, and seek the right 

again. 
In vain they turn to fly the horrid den 
Of human vampyres fed on other men ; 
No more 'tis theirs, their race of honor 



16 THE PRESENT AGE. 

Fate's mighty whirlpool swallows up at last. 
In dread array their horrid lines appear, 
Disunion in the van, destruction in the rear, 
Foul shapes from hell, — Fear, Murder, Hate, 

and Pain, 
And Abolition heads the gloomy train ; 
While many warriors of the raving school 
Of crazy G-rr-s-n, fanatic fool. 
Cry to their betters, " stand aside !" " give 

place !" 
" Make room for brethren of the colored 

race ! 
Make room for flowers born to blush unseen" 
(Not waste their fragrance on the air, I 

ween) ! 
" The cloud of slavery will soon give way : 
Thou poor benighted child of Africa, 
Then, far removed from all thy dire alarms, 
Come, wand'ring child! come to thy bro- 
ther's arms !" 

Enough of folly ; to our authors turn, 



THE PRESENT AGB. 17 

And good from bad with generous eye dis- 
cern. 
Reprove what's wrong, uphold each manly 

course, 
And show for once right triumph over force ; 
For plain and open should be satire's way, 
Of tempered wit, by judgment brought in 

play. 
The poor invective pen, that yields to ought, 
By threatening terrified, by money bought, 
Whose very thoughts it dare not loudly own, 
For fear some wrangler force it to atone 
An uttered sentence, which, though truth is 

there. 
Must give to menaces, as smoke to air. 
Can never check the follies of an age, 
Nor bid the weak be strong, the fool be sage. 
I only war for right against the wrong, 
Nor critic stand, though critique is my song. 

Then I-v-g first, the greatest of the day. 
Before whose genius babblers fade away ; 



18 THE PRESENT AGE. 

E'en though his wit and talents some dispute 
(What Hon ever pleased a lesser brute ?) 
In vain against him critics storm and rave, 
His path of glory lies beyond the grave. 
But still 'tis said that in his earlier days, 
He built Astoria for an Ast-r's praise, 
Or Ast-r's gold, which dazzled Irv-ng's eye. 
And called his spirit from its realm on high. 
Yet we may boast him at our proudest 

shrine, 
And there the foremost place to him assign. 
A household word his name will be, and 

must. 
When all the scribblers crumble into dust ; 
When it shall be forgot they did exist, 
Will Scott and Irv-ng head a noble list. 

And next behold ! that meets our searching 

eye, 
The learned author of the pedlar " Spy," 
Whom all that read, perusing, well may see 
His high bred thoughts of aristocracy, 



THE PRESENT AGE. 19 

For which, well praised and flattered as he 

goes 
Among such fish as bite the bait he throws, 
Although'tis meant for golden scales divine, 
Hooks but some poor ones of the " codfish 

line,'' 
Takes novel subjects both from sea and 

shore. 
Inflicts the public with them twice a score. 
" Bravos," and " Deerslayers," and all such 

tribe 
Fill up the brain of this prolific scribe, 
While pressing thickly on bring up the rear, 
" Borderers," and " Rovers," and a " Pio- 
neer." 
Then " Last of the Mohicans," may it be 
The last of such a tribe we e'er shall see. 

C — p-r ! C — p-r ! is it not a shame 
To write so many as to lose thy fame ? 

Or kad'st thou but contented been with few, 

1 well had sung thy praise, nor spoken thus 

of you. 



I 



20 THE PRESENT AGE, 

And thou, our greatest poet ! who shall 

write ? 
When thou hast hushed thy " Voices of the 

Night ;" 
Thy mind seeks heaven, its hidden things to 

know, 
Thou'rt blessed, indeed, our noble Longfellow, 
And, reading thee, it sickens me to see 
Such simple stuff now known as poesy. 
Not by our standard bards, but only those 
Who publish silly rhyme and mangled prose, 
Who much the Muses' holy hill disgrace, 
Make fools of poets and poetic race ; 
But thine we hear, and hearing, love it 

well, 
Like the sweet music of a silver bell. 
Thy " Psalm of Life," so truthful, long will be 
A psalm of life for those that follow thee ; 
While all that seek to find fame's golden 

gate, 
May " learn to labor" and " may learn to 

wait." 



THE PRESENT AGE. 21 

Shall " Thanatopsis" go unnoticed here, 
Who for a fame bids the bright " Past " 

appear, 
With buds of glory crowned : but ah ! be- 
neath. 
Dire abolition stains his shining wreath. 
Poems and politics can ne'er be joined, 
For one drives out the other from the mind ; 
Nor can you mix truth with disunion well. 
One Glomes from heaven, the other smacks 

of hell. 
And sure the poet strikes the strings in vain 
If stern veracity fills not his strain. 
Thus Bry-nt's rhymes must be all he can 

boast, 
While his black flag is flying from his " Post." 
Mend thy ways, Bry-nt ; leave thy colored 

friends, 
Nor always think " means justify the ends," 
Should to free slaves from cruel fate adverse, 
And let them loose to be our plague and curse, 
Within thy heart a solemn duty feel. 



22 THE PRESENT AGE. 

Mind the commandment, friend, " Thou 
shalt not steal." 

Then Morris next, the Moore of our day, 
More sweet, and far more moral in his lay : 
Immortal may his verse through ages be, 
And critic, " Woodmen, ever spare that 

tree." 
I love him for his generous, open heart. 
More than his rivals in the rhyming art ; 
His tender sympathies to all to give, 
That while he lives still let another live. 
Revered by one at least his name shall be, 
" For I'll protect him now, in youth he shel- 
tered me." 

And W-ll-s comes ; while satire's self must 

yield 
When friendship kindly offered takes the 

field; 
How many prouder, with devotion's sway 
O'er the bright warblings of thy sacred lay ; 



THE PRESENT AGE. 23 

I care not how the world may speak of thee ; 
If thou hast faults what mortal e'er was free 
From all the failings of humanity ; 
To sometimes err belongs to mortal race 
Nor are they clear that hold poetic place, 
Then let man know, it is not only vain, 
But shows a screw loose always to complain. 
There is a lesson taught by one of old 
And yet though human kept his pen unsold, 
A man who valued truth more than his ease, 
" He is a fool whom nothing e'er can please." 
Thou art a poet, not of the mean school 
Of him who sings, yet sings to befool, 
Not as a man of thee my muse must write 
But as an author, for we have no right 
To seek for things, that all would keep from 
sight. 

Now proudly floating on the " Ocean wave," 
With fame his pilot, his light bark to save 
From that oblivion which will be the lot 
Of half by whom mere verse has been begot ; 



i 



24 THE PRESENT AGE, 

Whose busy brains in biggest labor bend 
With half-spun stories^ couplets without end, 
Comes S-rg-nt, better than the general race, 
But yet for this, still very common-place ; 
While L-w-U, Wh-tt-r, and H-lm-s com- 
bine 
To lengthen out a fair poetic line : 
And Saxe, too, a modern junior Hood, 
As great a punster, but not half as good. 
Whose soul in air takes many a noble flight, 
A sort of intellectual paper kite. 

All hail ! thou great song-monger of the age ! 
Brought up a printer, and by nature sage : 
All hail 1 we laud thy greatness to the skies, 
Successful winner of great Barnum's prize ! 
Knight-errant writer, through thy roving 

brain 
We look o'er Europe, mountain, hill, and 

plain ; 
See El Dorado opening to our eyes 
Her roseate gate beyond our western skies, 



THE PRESENT AGE. 25 

Look from its mountain-tops and thence 

behold 
The broad Pacific lave her sands of gold. 
Immortal Taylor ! any dost thou please, 
Delivering lectures to " Societies" 
On this and that ; now roaming here, now 

there, 
Speaking on everything and everywhere ? — 
Greatly I fear we'll be compelled to own 
Thou doest much, but master art of none. 

And last of all, most worthily passed by, 
Some modern "Dido" meets our wond'ring 

eye. 
O shades of Pope and Byron, cease from wrath. 
And give the pointed lash to George M-g-th, 
Whose half-rhymed couplets no more hit 

the mark 
Than some blind archer shooting in the 

dark. 
If I were he, I would my plot reverse 
And mend my heroes, too, if not my verse : 
2 



26 THE PRESENT AGE. 

It seems he has endeavored much to show 

one, 
He is a hero of his own — he's " Nowun ;" 
But still let "laughers" in their puddle squirm, 
No one will deign to trample on a worm. 

My task is o'er, my harp I now resign, 
And ask no laurels of the mighty " Nine :" 
With conscious truth, I seek no other crown 
Than that of keeping vice and folly down. 
That long the pale Pyrene may belong 
To noble poets and to nobler song. 
Poets that in Parnassus still may dream. 
And drink the clear, pure, Heliconian stream. 
And not disturbed by foolish birds that cry. 
The silly jackdaw and the chattering pie, 
Who stun our ears with their perpetual ring ; 
You know they squeak, but they will swear 

they sing. 
So boyish men and oft half-witted boys- 
Now pass for poetry discordant noise ; 
While here and there some just pinfeathered 

thing 



THE PRESENT AGE. 27 

Mounts up in air and weakly tries to sing. 
Farewell ! and reader, if too true 
I've drawn my picture of some one like you, 
Reform your path, and seek a different end, 
Be led by reason, though in rhyming penned ; 
But if some kindly friend should think with 

me, 
Hear what I hear, and see what faults I see, 
Should fear that follies when they once begin 
From step to step lead on to crime and sin. 
Should wish to check them oft but never 

dare. 
Prevented by the daring front they wear, 
Raising his voice to teach, is left forlorn 
To all the darts of universal scorn. 
I know 'tis fashion now to be a fool, 
That all do learn it ere they come from 

school. 
That one has wit if wintered once in France, 
Knows how to gamble, dissipate, and dance. 
Yet I for one can meet the critic's wave. 
And fear its harm when impotent to save. 



28 THE PRESENT AGE. 

But long as I have force the storm to stem, 
I'll praise the good, the evil will condemn. 
And if my muse has ta'en too stern a text, 
And men do rage, and silly fools are vexed, 
I cannot help it ; what is said is said, 
I fear no more the living than the dead. 
I leave no publishers to mourn unsold 
Pages of rhyme once bartered off for gold ; 
No weeping friends with tear-betrickled face, 
If I'm unpopular shall mourn my case ; 
At harsh reviews I will not be undone, 
Or like bay-salt but crystal in the sun ; 
At least to muse I always will be free, 
Write what I please about society. 
If sundry authors here should take offence, 
Their threats are idle as their impotence, 
Their rhyme is murder — ^like the actor's 

jest,— 
But I have finished — ^let them do their best. 



THE END. 



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